


Samson, Templar Fame

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bards, Drabble, Gen, Skyhold, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skyhold assumes that Samson hates that Makerdamned song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samson, Templar Fame

Skyhold assumes that Samson hates _that_ Makerdamned song.

Truth is, most days, Samson’s too tired to care what the bard is strumming. He spends his morning shoveling shit in the stables. His afternoons consist of being hounded by the Commander. Some days, if he’s _so lucky_ , he gets poked and prodded by the dwarf.

After a long day of it all, he just wants a damned drink to wash his imprisonment down. He sinks into a wooden chair that creeks as loudly as his joints. The back of it digs into the sore spots between his bones. He reaches for a tankard of ale that’ll never be as good as the pale shit he used to drink in Kirkwall. And he closes his eyes.

Everyone watches him in Skyhold. The soldiers, the spies, the healers, the scouts. _Everyone_ knows who he is. Everyone knows what he’s done. The Maker is real effing hilarious—it must be payback for all the years he spent patrolling mages.

But Herald’s Rest? In this tavern, people watch him _differently_ than the rest of Skyhold.

The bard plucks out the first few chords of _that_ damned song.

The people of Herald’s Rest don’t watch his hands to make sure he’s not reaching for a weapon. They don’t watch his feet to see if he’ll run away. They don’t watch his muscles for any hint of an attack.

In Herald’s Rest, people watch Samson’s face.

_Samson, Templar fame, raise your shield of shame._

Samson knows what they’re all thinking. He knows what they’re trying to decide.

Do the lyrics make him see truth—how the Inquisition is pure and glorious and has _always_ been right, and the Red Templars are nothing but corrupted wrong? As if there had been any alternative to the Chantry. The Inquisition hadn’t even _existed_ when the Elder One gave the Templars a chance to die great.

Does the song touch his soul, make him sad and weep and regretful? Do they think he’s some beast that needs to be _tamed_ by music?

Do they worry that the tune will throw him into a rage? Do they think that he can’t handle being confronted with his own mistakes? They think he’s some rabid dog, salivating over dead bodies and destruction. They think he never gave a thought to the consequences of his actions.

_Samson, martyr rage, soon the world will pay._

No, the song isn’t some revelation. It isn’t some calling _._ He’s thought of all of his decisions before and he doesn’t need some damned song to suddenly _understand_ himself. Doesn’t need some bard to show him what he is and what he’s done.

The song finally finishes. Samson takes a sip of his ale. The bard has joined the crowd in watching him, but she’s got a stupid smirk on her face, a _knowing_ smile, like she’s seen into his soul or some other shit like that.

Samson swallows his mouthful of ale. He stares back at the bard, long and hard, then says in a clear voice, “Bit out of tune, wasn’t it?”

The bard starts her next song after a stutter. A few of her plucks are out of tune. There’s a dour look on her face, and Samson smirks.

He doesn’t hate that Makerdamned song, but that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it.

 


End file.
